Fading
by crowprincess14
Summary: America may have made it to safety, but a part of him died back in that island. Apocolypitc UsUk short, loosely Contagion based.


**Loosely Contagion based, thought up of when I was half watching it the other day. **

**I just really like killing Iggy, ok? I have issues…**

Fading

"Don't shoot!" cried the American, raising his hands high into the air to display he wasn't holding a weapon of any sort. "It's me."

There was the sound of a flashlight's power button clicking and France's face loomed out of the darkness of the seemingly abandoned building in front of him. Small whooshes could be heard as the people around him lowered their weapons.

France's eyes grew wide. "_Mon dieu_, Amerique, you're alive!" Half shattered lights flickered on, revealing the rest of the worn nations occupying the spacious room with him. Some of them had poorly wrapped injuries, while some of them looked like something inside of them had died. America understood. He felt that way also.

America's eyes, dull with shock and grief, met the Frenchman's. "Yeah. Barely." He shook his head and said shortly. "I managed to steal a boat and cross the Channel somehow. It's complete anarchy over there. There aren't enough cures to go around."

France pursed his lips. "It's no better over here. Everyone's lost themselves in the panic. Over the past few days, we've all managed to find each other and stay alive." His tone fell slightly. "I can only pray that the nations in the other continents managed to do the same."

The listlessness in America's voice was all too evident. "It talked to Canada a while back. He went up north, he can survive until this all dies down." _If _it all dies down.

A quick nod of relief came from the other. "_Magnifique_." His brow furrowed suddenly. "You were staying with Angleterre when this all began, correct? Where is he?" As soon as the words were out of his lips and a spasm of pain and guilt passed over America's face than France knew what had become of England. "Oh no…"

America's voice was barely audible. "Gone. It was either the plague or the people, I wouldn't know." His voice cracked. "He refused to let me give him a cure, said his people needed it. There was nothing I could do. He died in my arms." A tear slid down his face, quickly followed by several more. Any country with decency averted their eyes at America's sobbing.

Memories kept flashing before his eyes, against his will. The coughing that had splattered the floor with blood. His hands on England's waist and he tried to help him in to a sitting position. The horrible taste in his mouth when he realized that England was truly on his last legs. The touch, surprisingly gentle, on his cheek and that sweet weak smile give to him by the Brit. Salty drops falling onto his coat, wracking with horrid coughs. England's voice, begging him to get away before the same thing happened to him, completely ignoring the repeated vows to never leave him. That final, shaking, profession of love, before his eyes closed, never to be opened again.

A gentle squeeze snapped him out of the painful flashbacks. France's smile was forced, but it attempted at reassuring. "I'm sorry. He was important to us all."

America jerked his shoulder away. _That's a lie. _he thought bitterly. _He was more important to me than he ever was to any of you. _Maybe that wasn't fair. Most have them had been allies with England at one point or another. And the death of a country in these modern times was nothing less than sobering.

But once the plague had started, nothing would ever be the same again.

"He was a hero. More than I could ever be." The blonde wiped a dirty glove roughly across his eyes, vainly trying to make the tears vanish.

France looked away, blinking back tears of his own. "There's a chance of his revival, you know. Once a better cure is made and distributed. People will always be on this earth."

"They won't be the same. The residents will be different, if the return to the island at all, and he'll be different also." At the suggestion of one of the other countries, (it sounded like Spain, but America couldn't be sure), he sat down on the concrete. He pulled his knees to his chest in a protective gesture.

France leaned heavily against a wall. "It is still a possibility." he said, though even he himself sounded doubtful. He gave a sigh, then turned around. "Can somebody give me a blanket, _s'il vous plaît_?"

After a moment, he turned once more and handed America the blanket. "Try to get some sleep, ok? You look like you've been awake for days." Which, in fact, was true.

America pulled the thin blanket around himself and rolled onto his side, ignoring a chill from the bare floor. He closed his eyes in the fading light, but all he could see was death behind his lids.

Dying, dying, dying…

Dead.


End file.
